Minus the drug lords and the death threats that is…
in The awesomeness that is the inner workings of my somewhat disturbed and inarguably juvenile mind.
as Mary-Louise Parker, Nancy Botwin, Weeds
I did a great job of organizing my agenda this week. I’m trying to give myself a chance to rest and recover but also set one or two reasonable goals for each day of this week and somehow, even though we are only Tuesday, I’m already behind.
I blame you Nancy Botwin!
Weeds. Is anybody else as hopelessly addicted to this show as I am? I went through 2 and 1/2 seasons since Saturday! This has to stop or my poor children will have to start foraging for food out in the alley.
Not only do I want to do nothing more with my waking moments, then act as as a voyeur to the entire California suburb of Agrestic, or at least it’s starring cast, but I actually want to be Mary-Louise Parker’s character.
We already have so much in common.
We are both widowed single mothers of disrespectful bold faced teenagers, plagued by bill collection and disconnection threats (well, she was in Season one anyway…) and…um..and we’re both brunette…ish.
No, I don’t have her amazing house, pool with a mini waterfall, Land Rover, or the MAID but I aspire to.
No, I didn’t accidentally marry a DEA agent at an Elvis church in Vegas, impulsively have crazy hot sex with a dealer in an alley, on the hood of a car, mere moments after he threatened to kill me and my family and I didn’t accidentally get myself all tangled up in human trafficking mess but let’s not fuss over little details.
It’s not that the constant state of stress she is in that appeals to me, I already have that. I’m on the eternal search for Zen and tranquility. Hence the 13 yoga DVD’s, 16 different herbal teas and remedies and the mountain of detox/destress/self help books that chaotically litter my apartment.
But I can relate to it.
I can relate to coming home to find the phone disconnected and wondering where I am going to find the money to pay it.
I can relate to sitting at an intersection, banging my head on the steering wheel and crying to the universe “What am I doing???”
I can relate to staring at my children, through my 4th glass of wine and realizing that I have absolutely no control of them whatsoever, and that if I wasn’t on my 4th glass of wine I would probably be hyperventilating into a paper bag, while my family’s doom future flashes before my eyes.
Now if only I could look as sexy and adorable as Nancy Botwin doing it. She is sensitive and sweet but ballsy and bad ass at the same time. Who doesn’t want to be all that?
I’m not saying I want to deal drugs on the sly, to pay the tuition at my kid’s school, I’m just saying that there is something kind of sexy about it.
The bigger thing is that despite the general scenario basically going against my basic values and principles, it still excites me. Oh the shame.
What is it with these shows that I plan to hate because they emit negative energy and condition people to think that wrong is not so bad?
Why do I end up not only watching, liking loving them but completely addicted to them? Damn you Weeds, Dexter, Mad Men! You creepy disturbing, temptresses. Shame on all of you and Damn you straight to hell!
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to cut this post short because season 3 just finished downloading My agenda is calling and I have some shit to take care of.
And the cervix of a 19 year old…
in The awesomeness that is the inner workings of my somewhat disturbed and inarguably juvenile mind.
as Actonel, flirting, my boyfriend, older women, Prednisone, yesterday
I’ve always looked young for my age. I’d be the only one left out of the bar, as my friends filed in giggling and giddy on rum and coke Slurpees, with their fake ID and shoveled on make-up. The bouncers would laugh at me and tell me to go home to my mommy.
I was still being carded at the beer store when I was 30.
My gynecologist told me, just a few years ago, that she would never of guessed that I had 3 children because I have the cervix of a 19 year old. It was a strange compliment and not the kind you can call all your friends to brag about really but I skipped home joyfully just the same.
Yesterday, I was feeling particularly effected by the endless side effects of the Prednisone or possibly the Actonel that I am taking to help protect me from the side effects of the Prednisone…or the pills I’m taking to ward off the side effects of the Actonel… whatever.
I was feeling terrible and looking remarkably pregnant for a non-pregnant person so I went off to the grocery store in search of leafy greens, dried fruit and fiber. When I reached the cash, the owner started his usual chit chat which would normally bore me to tears but I’ve been starved of human contact lately so I entertained it. We were in mid mundane weather talk when he wondered rather abruptly,
“Are you married?”
“Pardon?”
“Married? Are you married? I never see you with a man, only your children.”
I haven’t been out of the house in a while, is he concerned or flirting?
“Oh, no…I’m not married. I have a boyfriend. I’m not married.”
“Do you live together?”
“No…no we don’t”
He smiles broadly and starts in about what I do for fun, how often do I see my boyfriend, do I like being a single mother and what am I planning to cook with the dried prunes etc…
Then he talks about how he would like kids and starts listing off the qualities he is looking for in a woman.
He is flirting! How fun! I think I can remember how to do this.
I smile back, toss my hair over my shoulder and make a few witty remarks, laughing contagiously and annoying the person waiting in line behind me to no end. Then the cashier comes right out with:
“I like older women.”
“Excuse me?”
He grins and gives me this you-know-what-I’m-talking-about-that’s-right-YOU look with a raise of the eyebrow and everything!
“I like older women, real women. I don’t like young girls. Older women have life experience, it’s very attractive.”
I refrained from letting my face fall immediately after the words left his lips. I refrained from clubbing him over the head with my bag of avocados. I refrained from screaming “I have the cervix of a 19 year old!!” in the grocery store.
I just took my box of bran and my produce, wished him a great day and good luck finding is dream woman and made my way gracefully out of the store and back home to take my 10 pills and a tablet of osteoporosis medication before getting cozy on the couch with a glace of prune juice and this month’s issue of O magazine, just in time for Dr. Oz.
Older women…pft!
Dear Boyfriend, I think you might be Polish.
in The awesomeness that is the inner workings of my somewhat disturbed and inarguably juvenile mind.
as boyfriend thinks he's Spanish, cauliflower soup, eggs, Jennifer June, my boyfriend, The Lady's Lounge
My boyfriend, is convinced that he is Spanish.
His father’s family is Acadian from New Brunswick and his mother was born in Montreal but adopted as an infant and apparently has no information about her cultural background. François has taken it upon himself to choose an ancestral background and has acquired the hellbent insistence that he is of Spanish lineage.
And why not? The food, the music, the dance, the hot men, the gorgeous women, what’s not to like?
“François in Spanish is Pedro”
“No babe, it’s really not.”
“It is so! My real name is Pedro”
“I’m guessing it’s probably Franco”
“Why don’t you believe in me?”
“Is this a real conversation?”
I’ll ignore the fact that he doesn’t speak a word of the language, has never been to the country and drowns in a pool of his own sweat whenever he eats anything remotely spicy. I’m even willing to overlook the fact that he is clearly as white as the driven snow.
There is just one thing…
Almost all the food François eats is as white as he is, contains potatoes and/or cream and his vegetable of choice is mushrooms.
Some of his specialties include:
Sausage sandwich on white bread
Pasta in cream sauce
Eggs, bacon and cheese on a waffle
Pork or poultry and potatoes
Creamy mushroom rice
Perogies
Cabbage Soup
Pickle Soup (Yes..that’s right, you read it correctly)
etc…
When I was in the hospital, he filled my entire refrigerator and freezer with assorted Tupperware containers all full to the brim with cream of Cauliflower soup, to help me heal faster. There is enough in there to fatten and clog the arteries of feed an army.
I am forced to deduct that my boyfriend is more likely Polish or pregnant than Spanish.
Do I bring it up, risk crushing his dreams but nipping this in the bud, before the stories start about how he is probably a direct relative of Joan Miró or Salvador Dalí?
Do I pretend to believe in his fantasy and his god given right to master the vihuela?
And more importantly, what do I do with the 30 gallons of cauliflower soup in my freezer?
By possible mood swings you mean feeling increasingly stabby right?
in The awesomeness that is the inner workings of my somewhat disturbed and inarguably juvenile mind.
as anxiety, anxious, blurred vision, feeling Stabby, frequent urination, half blind, increased appetite, insomnia, irritability, Jennifer Chapman, Jennifer June, mood swings, paranoid, Prednisone, Roid Rage, short-fused, sleep deprived, The Lady's Lounge
I thought that I would come home with this amazingly serene feeling, post-hospital epiphany in tow. After all, my life flashed before my eyes and what have you.
When I was still in, I lay playing with the controls of my foldy bed, thinking long and hard about what would happen if I just died, right now. What if I never get the chance to do all of the things I wanted to do? What if that was it?
*insert Peggy Lee singing – Is that all there is*
I’m not complaining. OK, maybe I am, but only a little. I’m happy to be home. I’m thankful I’m on the road to recovery. It could have been so much worse. I appreciate life in a whole new way and all that great stuff too! It’s just that I’m a bit surprised and maybe a tiny little bit disappointed that I’m not more…excited, rejuvenated or inspired or something.
I was sure I would come home and write a 6 foot long bucket list but so far “never leave the house with dirty laundry in the hamper” is the only task that has made it on there.
I was sure I would come home and take life by the balls but I’m still too tired to take the salad bowl off the fridge and put it up in the cupboard.
I was sure I would come home full of love and tenderness for absolutely everyone on earth but instead I feel intolerant and bitchy and occasionally overcome by the urge to stab somebody in the eye with a plastic fork.
I blame these steroids they have me on. They keep me in this walking coma and are starting to make me seriously doubt my sanity.
Some of the possible side effects include mood swings,anxiety, irritability, frequent urination, blurred vision, increased appetite and insomnia.
So, basically picture me half blind, sleep deprived (averaging 3 hours of sleep at night), paranoid, anxious, short-fused and starving, with the constant feeling of urgency nagging at my bladder.
I’m SO fun to hang out with!!
So Zen.
So full of love and tenderness.
Are you on fire? No. Are you Bleeding? No. Then it can wait.
in The awesomeness that is the inner workings of my somewhat disturbed and inarguably juvenile mind.
as Extreme Makeover Home Edition, Flip That House, Jennifer June Chapman, The Lady's Lounge
I know it will be a long recovery process physically, eating breakfast exhausts me. I suspect there will be some emotional recovery also. It’s inexplicably surreal to wonder one minute if you will survive the night and then only days later be staring at a dog that is begging you to take her out to pee, as though none of this happened or is happening. Do people go through post traumatic stress in these types of situations? I imagine some must. I can still hear my IV beeping while I sleep, even though I’ve been home for two nights.
I’ve noticed some strange quirky behaviors I brought home from the hospital with me, easy over-stimulation, unusual sensitivities and paranoia but mostly routine related preoccupations.
It is amazing to me how quickly we become institutionalized in controlled environments. Somehow, all the craziness that my regular day to day day life embraces, was reduced to a schedule of medications and meal times. I’m not kidding, the food at the hospital was so vile, I literally gagged some of it down on the verge of tears, but I still looked forward to it, because it meant that segment of the day was over. The highlight of my day was the morning hemoglobin count, but after that, all that was left was glucose tests, lunch time and 52 repeat episodes of Flip That House and Extreme Makeover Home Edition. Supper, supper meant the transfusions and immune (gamma?) globulin starts again in 2 hours. I imagine this is what life for many seniors in shitty retirement homes must be like. You’re just counting these mundane events because they are your only activities. They prove that time is in fact relevant and more importantly, they help keep your mind off whether or not you are going to live.
Of course, as far as distractions go, I had a great deal of help from Mrs. Wiseman.
“HELP!” she wailed from the room next door. My nurse didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
“HELP!!!! I’M DYING!!”
“That’s Mrs. Wiseman” he informs me, “She does that”.
And she did. Half the day and most of the night. Whether it was to ask how many days she had left to live, to ask for insulin, to go to the bathroom or even to ask a nurse to unwrap a candy for her, it was proceeded by blood curdling shrieking from her room. She refused to use her bell and refused to accept that the nurses couldn’t hear her crying out to them from the far far far end of the hall. She would scream and yell and holler and eventually, if nobody answered, she would call out from the phone in her room, dialing the direct phone number to the Hospital itself and asked to be transferred to the front desk of our floor. The receptionist would answer what she assumed was an outside call, only to hear:
“I’m constipated! Help me! I need Demerol!”
Later:
Mrs Wiseman: “HELLOOOOOOO! I’m dying in here!!!”
Nurse: “Hmmmm.. I was planning to come back in half an hour to take your blood pressure, are you still going to be here or should I skip your room?”
Mrs. Wiseman: “Do you think think you’re funny?”
Nurse: “Just asking…”
Considering she’s been there since August, I think she’s remarkably sane. I would have probably thrown myself out the window already.
“Paul?”
“No, Mrs. Wiseman”
“HELP ME!”
He enters my room.
“You think I’m a monster, I know it, but she just wants me to pass her the T.V. remote, it can wait.”
“I don’t think you’re a monster. When my kids badger me like that I ask them, Are you on Fire? Are you bleeding? No? Then it can wait. Of course, you’re her nurse, not her mother. It probably wouldn’t go over very well here.”
Paul smiles, checks my vitals and promises to be back in half an hour and I listen as his footsteps fade down the hallway.
“Paul!!”
“Mrs. Wiseman?”
“Help me!”
“Are you on fire?”
“What?”
“Are you on fire Mrs. Wiseman?”
“Of course I’m not on fire!!”
“Are you bleeding?”
“No!”
“Then it can wait.”
Vegetarian fish loaf?
in The awesomeness that is the inner workings of my somewhat disturbed and inarguably juvenile mind.
as Autoimmune Hemolytic Anemia, Fish Loaf, Jennifer June Chapman, The Lady's Lounge
So… after 6 days of a fever of over 104, violent and uncontrollable shaking and an inability to get from one room to the other without sliding my body against the wall for support, my silly boyfriend decides that it’s time to haul me kicking and screaming (or dragging and whimpering rather) to the clinic.
The doctor takes one look at me and decided due to my canary yellow hue, that my liver has clearly aborted all obligation to me and and that I was to be rushed immediately to the hospital.
After about 2 billion blood tests, which were especially fun because I have no veins, it was determined that my liver is in great shape.
“So I can still drink?!?”
As are my kidneys.
The only thing is, that my over enthusiastic immune system has decided for no apparent reason, that my red blood cells are actually an evil virus and has formed anti-bodies that are rapidly killing them off. Autoimmune Hemolytic Anemia.
The next morning, I had my first of 12 blood transfusions. I was terrified. First they warn you of all the potential reactions you might have to the blood, then they reassure you that only 25% of recipients have a reaction.
“ONLY 25%? I may have chartreuse eyeballs, I may be in a fever induced semi-coma but I can do basic math. There are four people in this room things aren’t looking so good for somebody.”
Then they come look at you every 15 minutes to remind you that you might react.
“Are you feeling anything strange? Heart palpitations? Difficulty breathing? Itching?”
“No, no I’m fine” scratch scratch, wheeze, choke.
My roommate was a loud groany man, who wasn’t as offensive as he was exhausting. I kept catching him heaving his body off the end of his bed, gown around his thick neck, his stark white ass in the air, letting out these long winding farts, tugging on his colostomy bag, muttering and swearing in Italian.
“Mr. Primiani, you’re not supposed to get out of bed by yourself.”
“I go see my wife!” He announces authoritatively.
I push the alert button.
The Preposé comes running and cram him back into place, threatening to restrain him and what have you.
Repeat every 30-40 minutes.
It was our thing.
After having some of my blood accidentally transfused into a bag of saline, the visiting hematologist requested that I be transferred to a hospital more equipped for my condition, like one with actual doctors for example.
The next hospital gave me a private room and reverse isolation. A calmer, quieter place to obsessively question my mortality and berate myself for having put off doing laundry all week, never having written a will or planned for the potential orphanage of my children.
It took several days before I could walk the four feet to the bathroom without help from Francois, who devotedly dragged my IV stand behind him back and forth, and refrained from showing any resentment towards me for having to use the toilet about every 15 minutes. He slept in the chair beside me, holding my hand and reassuring me that everything would be OK. I reassured him that I knew everything would be OK and silently prayed to god to let me live.
They have successfully suppressed my immune system enough to slow down the execution of my blood cells and now we watch and wait, as I get slowly weaned off the steroids, to see that the anti-bodies don’t kick in again. We’re not entirely in the clear, I’m still heavily medicated and having my blood tested every couple of days but I was discharged from the hospital yesterday, to come home to heal. The condition being that my mom is not allowed to go home for at least a week (sorry mom) and my kids promise to be angels. Hear that kids?
For real though, I’m happy to be home to listen to them bicker, to listen to the landlord renovate the apartment upstairs, so happy to not eat “vegetarian fish loaf” for supper, so happy to be home to sleep in my own bed, even if Bowtie/Boots/Duncan/Eli/Whose cat is that? only lets me sleep on a third of it. Thank you for the flowers, wishes, visits, prayers and piggy truffles. Thank you to my sweet boyfriend who insisted that I was beautiful even if I looked like Marge Simpson. Thank you most of all to everyone who came together and managed to miraculously stabilize my children’s lives through all of this. I can’t thank you enough, but thank you, thank you, thank you.
Aaaaaaand scene!
in The awesomeness that is the inner workings of my somewhat disturbed and inarguably juvenile mind.
as I drink for a reason, Jabba the hut, Jennifer June, The Lady's Lounge, Urban Outfitters
Christmas reminds me of childbirth, in that there is all this exciting build up, decorating, shopping, alerting and gathering of the family etc… but then, when it is just about to happen, you suddenly change your mind and want to either stop the whole show or just skip straight to the day after.
The day after Christmas feels like the day after childbirth in that you are in this delirious semi-coma, basically non-functional, happy that it’s finally over and in complete disbelief that there was room for all of that (person, pie whatever…) inside your body and the children are laying around like zombies, convulsing and coming down off of crack candy canes, playing with the over priced gifts you bought them to make them love you believe in Santa and/or compensate for you knocking them down the food chain pecking order by forcing yet another spawn of Satan sibling on them.
I love Christmas, I love it to death but this year I had a little trouble hanging on to the spirit
My boyfriend hates Christmas, or so he lies says, but I swear, he is the one who brought the cheer this year, and by brought the cheer I mean stopped me from:
a) killing half the shoppers at Urban outfitters and two Clerks at the Mac store on Christmas eve
b) Selling one of the kids so I could afford to buy what the other two asked Santa for.
c) Drinking all the booze (alone) before noon Christmas day.
*It’s official, he’s a keeper.
I stressed for days that the gifts/food/decorations weren’t good enough, because that’s what I do, and to insure an element of self sabotage left starting the construction of my boyfriend’s present, for 11pm on Christmas eve which needless to say was moronic of me and by the time he rolled in after work, at 3:30am, it was still incomplete. Fortunately, I was too drunk with Gin exhaustion the next morning to feel inadequate and besides, my daughter gave him a Lily Allen photo vinyl, which he rubbed all over his body and made out with for about an hour before breakfast so it was all good.
Christmas came and went, and we all survived, even the kitten that my father in law brought along for fun, who was miraculously not eaten by Darla our mentally challenged boxer or Bowtie/Boots/Duncan/Whose cat is that? (the neighbour’s cat who refuses to leave…going on 5 months now).
Darla did however take it upon herself to urinate repeatedly throughout the house during the day, in protest of the kitten and subsequent rejection, what with the kitten being adorable and Darla being, quite frankly, repulsive…in comparison.
This makes perfect sense of course. I mean, were I faced with say…a skinny blond, half my age and twice the leg, I’m sure that rather than embarrassing myself by trying to out-cute her, I would strategically place myself within plain sight of my boyfriend and simply pee on the floor. It’s a no brainer.
Who brings a kitten to a Christmas dinner you ask… yeah…anyway…
I spent the whole day drinking cooking (and mopping), while the men did man things and the kids did kid things. We ate way too much, we drank too little, we watched old reel to reel films of people none of us have ever met and a few of my boyfriend playing with his wiener the bath when he was a baby, played two rousing games of Seinfeld Clue, one of which I won because I’m just that amazing and one of which somebody else won but who cares because I won the first one and that’s all that matters and then we finally collapsed at about 2am.
I can’t move, see or breathe and if ever my goal was to morph into Jabba the Hut the last two days have launched me half way to realizing that dream, but technically I am alive. We survived another Christmas.
*One of the gifts he gave me was a copy of David Cross’ I drink for a Reason. How fitting.
Dear Santa, we need to talk.
in The awesomeness that is the inner workings of my somewhat disturbed and inarguably juvenile mind.
as Barbie's dreamhouse, daddy issues, I hate Telus, Mork and Mindy, Mr. T, Santa, Sephora, Slinky, Stocking stuffers, Telus, Tofurky, tourtière
Naughty…Nice… really? I’m sure I had my off days but what kid hasn’t?
I don’t want to be a jerk or anything and I get how maybe you didn’t think a pony was a good gift for an irresponsible 3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10 or 11 year old child living in a 2nd floor flat in Montreal city, good call. But I’m at a bit of a loss as to why you failed me all those years in a row re: Barbie’s dreamhouse.
Honestly Santa, was a Mr. T action figure or a Mork and Mindy T-Shirt really so much to ask? Silly Putty? Come on! It’s only a dollar at Dollarama today. How much could it possibly have cost in 1976?
The thing is Nick,
My therapist may insist that my fear of abandonment/paralyzing inability to trust /OCD/Oppositional Defiance Disorder etc… are stemmed from daddy issues or that I’m competing with my mother or burying a past trauma in the recesses of my subconscious but I think I’m pretty in touch with my feelings and the only one person that I can think of in my entire life who has been consistently absent from my life, filled my head with gross fantasies and empty promises and, for all intents and purposes, failed me, is…
Look, I’m sure it wasn’t intentional, probably just a (repeated) oversight on your part, but this has been one hell of a year and I’m thinking that if ever you were to get the urge to redeem yourself, now would be a really great time to do it.
I have taken the liberty of making you a list so you really don’t have to put any thought into it at all.
1) A Sweater hand knit by somebody’s grandma, preferably with reindeer and holly on it but I will easily settle for snowflakes if that’s all you’ve got.
2) A state of the art 21.1-megapixel full-frame camera to capture the growth, brilliant smiles, cherished moments, exhilarating love and emotions of my beautiful daughters. And also so I can take naked poorly lit amateur photos of myself and text them to my boyfriend when he’s on tour.
3) A Tofurky. I can’t find one anywhere and I’ve been ridiculed over the phone by every grocery store in the city this week.
“Tof-what? What is it? We have Turkey”
“No, I’m sure I’ve bought it
there before. It’s called Tofurky, it’s made of Soy product and… ”
“We have Turkey sausages.”
“No, it’s a stuffed..”
“Oh! Stuffing! We have it in boxes and in tubs”
“No a stuffed…”
“We don’t have stuffed Turkeys m’am you have to stuff it yourself.”
Please, Mr. Kringle, don’t make us settle for faux tourtière again this year, I suck at making it and it tastes like ground cardboard, even with Ketchup on it.
4) Employment insurance (even on sick leave) doesn’t pay the rent let alone Christmas so I was thinking…
I’ve got their stocking stuffers covered, I keep a junk drawer full of them ( batteries, razors, condoms, pennies,twist ties etc…),
but I could really use enough money deposited into my bank account to buy some cool presents for the kids. It’s one thing to give a gift certificate for a massage or taking out the garbage to your husband (and even then…) but they never go over quite as well with the kids. I thought of making them clay ashtrays shaped as iPods but wondered if it might give the wrong message. Speaking of money and youth protection…
5) Rent paid for the next 6 months (or last two), so I can take my drinking and child neglect to the next level (finish writing my book, album and one woman show).
The world will be a much better place, I assure you.
6) My youth back. Preferably my 6 year old energy, 18-21 year old body with my 32 year old brain, if it can be arranged. If not, I’ll settle for that Mork and Mindy T-Shirt.
7) I have three kids, a dog and the neighbour’s cat (who refuses to go home). Without exaggeration, 3 1/2 hours is how long my dryer takes to dry one sock, a dishtowel and two cotton pillow cases. I’m not sure if we have a washing machine anymore because I cant reach the area it was once situated in, due to the mountain of wet mouldy laundry that has been waiting 6 months for it’s turn in the dryer. So please…Santy, be a pal
8 ) And last but not least, Sephora. Yes, the whole place. A whole Sephora, of my very own. That’s what I want.
9) UPDATE! Telus just disconnected my cell phone (again) because the bill is past due by ONLY 8 DAYS!! Please Father Christmas, please, please, please kill them (economically) PLEASE.
Alright Jultomten, I think that pretty much covers it. I thank you sincerely for your time and look forward to hearing back from you at your earliest convenience.
Love Jen (Jennie)
P.S. Thanks for the Slinky
The landing strip
in The awesomeness that is the inner workings of my somewhat disturbed and inarguably juvenile mind.
as bikini wax, brazilian wax, esthetics, Hair removal, landing strip, nose glasses, pubic hair, pubic hair mustache, waxing
So…
I don’t want to offend anybody here but I’m just going to come right out and say that I don’t get what people call “the landing strip”, or “pubic hair mustache”. I don’t know if it’s because it reminds me of porn from 1989 or something else, but it just looks weird to me.
Don’t get me wrong, I get the appeal of maintenance. In fact, I am a big fan of landscaping, but there are extremes to everything you know?
Like, on the one hand, a giant jungle muff sprawled across your crotch and down to your knees can be a little intimidating, but so can the bare naked “look at me, I’m a pre-pubescent child” thing.
Two days ago I was showering with great anticipation for the appointment I had made with an esthetician down the street. I’d never been there before but it looked swanky and it was much closer to our house than the place I usually go.
Less than an hour later I was half naked, spread out on a table with a stranger and reeling (not really but it sounds dramatic) in shock.
Why? Well let me tell you why…
Chick: “what kind of wax?”
Me: “I don’t know what it’s called.. the kind that takes away a lot but still leaves a little”
Chick: “OK”
I used my hands though, I motioned the motion one might if they were saying “leave a small-medium triangular patch here but take away the extra…” If you get what I mean. She insisted she did so I had no reason to believe that I wasn’t in safe hands.
The thing is that she was a little rougher than I’m used to and almost disturbingly thorough. Seriously, if she had been any closer to my birth canal, she would have been waxing my cervix.
On top of that, after each strip, she would lean in really close and blow on me. Yes…that is correct. I’m not repeating it so if you just said “WHAT?” go back a line or two and re-read that one.
Distracted by the pain and this somewhat unfamiliar hair removal ritual, I failed to pay close attention to the actual procedure itself and even worse, when instructed to flip on to my tummy, did so without hesitation. Maybe some people have stray pubes that wander and are more easily accessed from the back?
Judge me if you must, I really don’t care. Maybe you do this all the time, maybe you wouldn’t have it any other way, maybe you do it for fun, at the house, with all your friends and loved ones. I don’t know.
But what I do know is that I don’t have access to the adjectives that would best describe the feelings I experienced when quite suddenly surprised by searing hot wax in my butt crack. I honestly didn’t even have the time to protest before the deed was done.
So.. I came home feeling a little bewildered and somewhat violated but, in all honesty, it wasn’t that bad.
What was bad, though, was later catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, on my way to bed, and subsequently coming to the awesome realization that the only thing between me and that bare naked “look at me, I’m a pre-pubescent child” look was what some might call “the landing strip”, or “pubic hair mustache”…if you will.
My question to you is… now what?
Do shave it all off?
Do I leave it like that and avoid my reflection for the next 4-6 weeks?
Do I take a moment every day to stand in front of the mirror, pointing, laughing and judging as I have been so quick to do to others?
Do I buy it a pair of nose glasses?
Suggestions please!
